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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312337">A Little Wicked</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eternal_Garbage/pseuds/Eternal_Garbage'>Eternal_Garbage</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/regsregis/pseuds/regsregis'>regsregis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Borderlands (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, M/M, Minor Rhack, Mommy Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, background Jackisha, emotionally constipated manchildren, fem!Jack, you'll get why once you read</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:41:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,115</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312337</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eternal_Garbage/pseuds/Eternal_Garbage, https://archiveofourown.org/users/regsregis/pseuds/regsregis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys thinks the odds are finally about to start changing in his favor. Timothy, meanwhile, finds himself caught in an intricate web of lies and magic woven into his very life. But is he just an innocent bystander he thinks himself to be because Rhys sure isn’t.</p><p>At the core of it, an evil and very…<i>very</i> handsome force ignites the machine that will send both of them into a head first crash with their destiny</p><p>Evil lesbians, magic shenanigans and devils that just won't stay buried 6 feet under, all in one, delicious pet project over a year in the making and counting</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Handsome Jack/Nisha (Borderlands), Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands), Handsome Jack/Timothy Lawrence/Rhys, Timothy Lawrence/Rhys</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Little Wicked</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Prologue</b>
</p><p>The tick of a clock, the seconds’ hand chipping away at the time he had left with the relentlessness of the ocean waves, stealing grains of sand with every lap. Restless and anxious, Jack was staring holes into the heavy shackles around his ankles, hexes and glyphs etched into the sacred metal. His plan was foolproof. Had to be, of course, but without a test run he was flying blind and hoping against all odds he had not made any mistakes. Blood like black ice and a venom’s whisper in his heart, the powers he commanded were bound to him, caged inside and screaming for release, crashing against the enchanted binds. All Jack could do was to go, for the hundredth time, over every step of the events that were about to go down tonight, and hope.</p><p>Hope died last, after all.</p><p>His oppressors would come in at sunset to pass the judgment they had no right enforcing, to end his life and destroy everything he had worked so hard for. They’ve already taken away so much from him, the sparks of joy - snuffing out the light of his line’s successor, the woman he cared for, the industrial empire he had been building, sticking their filthy little fingers into the cogs of the warmachine that was meant to fuel his progress.</p><p>No.</p><p>Not just <em>his</em> progress, the whole world’s progress but for that to happen, all the weak links had to be severed, insignificant mortals pitched against one another over the Archduke's corpse.</p><p>Lips at a cruel angle, Jack could hardly find any pity for the lowly creatures he had doomed to an all out war, maybe the very first one on this scale but surely, not the last one. The blood on his hands warranted a blood taken from him, his life for those that will be lost to his machinations.</p><p>He was getting side-tracked here, where was he? Ah yes, the sunset. The self appointed militia would take his life today but Jack didn’t think himself the greatest Sorcerer of all times for naught. Today he was going to be reborn, a chance to raise above the confines of frail mortality and ordinary magic.</p><p>The door to his cell creaked, metal studs catching the last slivers of sun, and Jack was dragged out, kicking and struggling the entire way to the makeshift court. Impotent curses were hanging from his lips and fire, like they have never seen before, was burning in his bright blue eyes.</p><p>“Jonathan Jack Campbell, for your crimes against the mortal humankind, for fostering war propaganda, for the attempted reveal of the world of the magic to the mortals and for the murder of Roland Jenkins, we hereby sentence you to death by a fatal sting of the Cauda Cultro…”</p><p>He… wasn’t expecting a fate as wicked as this. Where the hell did they even manage to come across this rare creature? Jack was hoping for an easy way out: a cord around his neck, a kiss of fire, maybe some old - school drowning. But this was beyond cruel, the falling crescendo of his protests echoing in the chamber and falling on hateful, deaf ears.</p><p>Held down by the powers not unlike his daughter once wielded, he watched with eyes wide and a lump in his throat as one of those thieves...liars…<em>bandits</em> - the words spat one by one with every futile jerk of his body - brought a small vial with a tar like substance in it. With utmost care, the cork was popped and a single drop landed on his chest, swirling and taking shape, eight legs forming and small, largely useless pincers clicking. Eight blood red eyes turned towards his, three whip like tails curled over the segmented body. A creature of many legends, palm sized but known to relentlessly pursue and destroy the magic it fed upon.</p><p>Jack kept his eyes wide open, breath shaking between his ribs and a hollow ring in his ears, struggling to follow the creature’s movements and willing it to back down. A blink and when he snapped his eyes open, the stingers were already retracting, marred with crimson, a stark contrast against the black chitin.</p><p>The venom spreads through his veins, melting away the cold embrace of fear and replacing it with the scorching heat of pain and anguish, igniting and cannibalizing what made Jack, the Handsome Sorcerer, a person, a mage, a human with plans and ambitions and love in his heart.</p><p>Sounds torn from his throat taking over the constant hum of the gears of time that keep the worlds turning, and an insistent crawl of something very familiar clawing its way outside of him in search of an escape. Where skin tore, all of Jack’s anger and fear and spite, rolled into a roaring mass of vile vexed bitterness, slipped free.</p><p>Miles away, a child died in the mother’s womb. A simple, middle class woman that once paid a couple copper pennies for a pretty necklace and a promise it would keep her baby well, legs giving out under the crushing weight of a heart wrenching loss and a worried husband rushing her to the hospital.</p><p>Surrounded by blood and fretting medics, he draws his first breath and opens his mouth to scream.</p><p><b>Rhys</b>
</p><p>So this was just in: everything sucked and by ‘everything’ Rhys really did mean Every. Single. Thing. Right from the moment he had arrived at his destination. No, actually right after he took on the delivery order. Should have seen it in the customer, they were the kind that really did not want to settle down for ‘simple’ or, you know, the ‘half now, half later’ kinda deal. But they paid well and Rhys, as always, needed money so that alone was the reason that he now stumbled out of the undergrowth all tired, angry and, worst of all, empty - handed. </p><p>A professional always came prepared and Rhys considered himself to be highly professional. Usually his bag had everything Rhys needed but, as it turned out, today was the exception to the rule. He sighed and quickly looked at his mud - streaked expensive shoes, eyes catching onto the dirt clinging as high as the hem of his already rolled up skinny jeans. It was time to cut his losses and try another day. His trusty travel mug was still in his hands but the hope evaporated as Rhys peeked inside: there was barely enough left for anything at all, let alone his travel all the way home.</p><p>Great. Marvelous. Just what he needed. Except, you know, not right now and not fucking <i> ever.</i></p><p>If he started walking now, Rhys would hopefully hitch a ride or, at the very least, stumble onto a bus stop like some sort of <i>peasant.</i></p><p>Rhys took out his set of frequently used and treasured bird bones, trying to decide on a direction to take and, in his hyper-focus, he did not get alerted by a rumble of a quickly approaching motorcycle.</p><p>The moment a beam hit him in the face Rhys got startled and, much akin to the deer in the headlights, froze, an icy feeling spreading in his chest. Oddly it was not fear that he felt, but a strange sense of familiarity. He drew in a shaky breath, fingers reaching to his neck where the mark began to simmer and burn. Rhys’ breath had suddenly caught in his throat, every inhale labored as the blue gave in to gold split second before the vehicle and the man collided, sending him backwards and into the darkness.</p><p><b>Timothy</b>
</p><p>Another long and ungrateful shift had his eyes feeling heavy as Timothy was struggling to stay awake, revving his bike’s engine in a desperate attempt to get home faster. Normally his work didn’t require much brain power (if any at all) but Tim had made a reputation for himself as a guy who wouldn’t pass up an extra buck if waved in front of his nose suggestively enough. For someone with a Liberal Arts degree Tim was quite competent with machines, his boss quickly making it Lawrence’s task to maintain and damage control of all their three outdated and slow computers.</p><p>Sounded simple enough but with colleagues like his who even needed any enemies?</p><p>Larry’s not-so-secret porn collection had been today’s star of the show. Had to be Larry, because who else would be stupid enough to keep their spank bank tucked away on their office computer? Tim kept his own well secured at home and Ronald, their boss, was ancient enough to probably jerk off to stone slabs. Old coot Ron nearly left this mortal coil when he opened up the joint in the morning to see a computer stuck on pop - ups with quite the rowdy stuff. Yes, <em>rowdy</em>. That was the word he used as he dragged Tim out of bed on his day off to come and take a look.</p><p>He sure did, got a <em>whole</em> eyeful in fact.</p><p>Tim tried contacting Larry and when the plan failed he left a voicemail that was not suited for the ears of the young, pregnant and feeble. Yelling into someone’s inbox felt rather liberating and, after repeating it three more times, Lawrence got to work. Several hours later Tim came to a conclusion that the computer was tainted beyond salvation and only a full wipe would save it.</p><p>With every new client demanding his attention and all the software that needed an update, the day trickled by, as did both his sanity and patience. Around nine in the evening he finally told Ronald's empty chair to go fuck itself, closed down the small office and went outside, breathing in the late summer air.</p><p>A beer later, the empty can tossed somewhere in the bushes since he wasn't particularly in a recycling mood, Lawrence straddled his old bike and sped into the dying light. He lived outside the city in a rather isolated area and, if he were honest, also preferred it that way.</p><p>There were definitely pros and cons to this hermit arrangement. For starters, chicks were really into the whole 'rugged bad boy with a cabin in the woods' kind of vibe. That, followed by flaunting his vintage motorcycle and a promise of a sweet ride with even sweeter 'after hours' got Tim a steady stream of one night stands. The cons? Getting up early in the morning to beat the traffic. Not that it was particularly dense around his neck of the woods but he absolutely hated to break and crawl along the packed streets when caught in a rush hour.</p><p>The lights of his bike began to dim and he shook his head, cursing the eyes that refused to stay open. Tim popped the visor of his helmet up, letting the cold air beat his face in hope of waking himself up.</p><p>A sudden shiver ran down his spine and Lawrence felt as if the air got knocked out of his lungs, burning his throat and mouth the way ice burned bare fingertips in the dead of winter.</p><p>Someone’s here. <em>He</em> is here. He’s -</p><p>Air. He needed some air. <em>Now</em>.</p>
<hr/><p>
 <i>The darkness reached out, tendrils searching for something as they thrashed about. No, not just <b>something</b> but rather...itself, a long-lost part that was oh so sorely missed. He was right here, with dampness clinging to his jeans - when did he even start wearing something stupid like that? He was right here, with wind cooling down the sweat on his face and a purring of an engine between his thighs. A victorious chorus howled in his heart…<b>hearts</b>, a crash course the two have set on, heading for a collision with gravity sending them into a downwards spiral, the coils tighter and tighter on every loop. He had to bring them together, reclaim what was his and free the wings that have once been clipped. This time it will happen. This time he will do it right.
He clutched the handlebars and throttled the engine, kicking the motor into a higher speed.
He kept his eyes peeled onto the growing beam of light, bracing himself for the impact, travel mug slipping from his grip as the blue became gold.</i></p>
<hr/><p>Scared and confused Tim lifted one hand off the handles, fingers curling around the edge of the motorcycle helmet and trying to take the damn thing off. Free of the driver's guiding touch, the bike swerved and the bouncing headlight caught a lonely figure in the middle of the road. Lawrence panicked, letting the helmet go and attempted to steer away, braking as he leaned dangerously sideways.</p><p>Too slow.</p><p>Too late.</p><p>The collision lifted the other person into the air as if they were a ragdoll, propelling them forwards and away. Tim barely managed to roll sideways and avoid getting pinned underneath the hot and still sputtering bike as he toppled over. Crawling off the road and into the sand, angry sob escaping him, Lawrence touched his hip where the jeans tore open, skin scraped raw over the gravel.</p><p>
  <i>Shit, the other person.</i>
</p><p>Muscles protesting, Tim stood up, trying to keep the weight off the hurt leg as he wildly looked around for whoever he had just hit. The stillness of the night was only interrupted by the dying coughs coming from the bike’s engine and as soon as Lawrence found it, he found what he was looking for: several meters ahead, just outside the reach of the headlight, a curled up shape rested motionlessly on the asphalt. Ignoring the pain Tim hobbled over to the Schrodinger roadkill, fretting on the inside as he knelt besides them and searched for a jugular.</p><p>There was a pulse, <em>thank fuck</em>. Steady and slow which was not the kind one would expect from a person possibly going into shock. Carefully Lawrence took his phone out and switched on the flashlight, moving to the front to get a better look. A young man, maybe late twenties or early thirties with dark brown hair and a pretty face that was, at the moment, riddled with fresh scrapes and blooming bruises. A particular cause for concern was a shallow wound on the left temple that was still seeping a bit of blood. It didn’t seem too deep but these kinds of wounds could be… problematic and have lasting effects.</p><p>Eyebrows knit together, thoughts stumbling over one another, Tim unlocked his phone and was about to dial 911 when, all of a sudden, a hand gripped his forearm, the kid’s eyes popping open as he rolled onto his back, vacant mismatched gaze trying to focus on Lawrence’s face.</p><p>“No hospital. Can’t gh-go.”</p><p>“Buddy, you just headbutted a bike. It’s better if you -, ”</p><p>“I said <em>no</em>.”</p><p>Long slim fingers brushed up to Lawrence’s wrist and stilled on the screen of his phone, young man’s lips moving but no sound coming out. That small effort seemed to have overexerted him, head suddenly lolling to the side and eyes falling shut. Tim shook his head at that and turned his attention back to the phone, finger swiping over the screen, trying to unlock it. The device didn’t respond and all he got was a needling pain in the index finger, prompting Lawrence to snort indignantly and almost drop the damn phone on the ground. The next few attempts were just as fruitless: a locked screen and a throbbing pain, now in both of his index fingers <em>and</em> thumbs. Some recreational hissing and complaining later, Tim stood up and headed for his bike, picking her up and towing to the side of the road. His old backpack was still tucked away in one of the saddlebags and Lawrence dug it out, tossing it over his shoulder. As he headed back to where the kid was, his boot tripped over something and Tim bent down, squinting and picking up an old bag. No, a <em>satchel.</em> The cover was open and some of the contents spilled out, making Lawrence begrudgingly kneel once more and blindly pat over the asphalt, trying to track down the scattered possessions.</p><p>Soon enough Tim was standing over the young man once again, worrying his bottom lip. He clearly remembered it wasn’t advised to move a person who had possible internal injuries but the weirdo refused to go to the hospital and even if he didn’t, Tim’s phone chose just the perfect moment to croak, leaving him with few options. As gently as he could, Lawrence picked the stranger up, holding the man secure enough to not rattle him any further and, after throwing one last gaze at the bike and promising her that he’ll be back, started walking towards his house. Luckily for the both of them, Tim’s place was not too far away.</p><p>
<b>Rhys</b>
</p><p>Holy mother of - Why did he feel as if someone dropped a brick onto his head? He stirred, the feeling of discomfort growing in intensity and finally culminating in a groan raising up the back of his throat.</p><p>“Oh. You’re awake. That’s cool. Wish it was a bit later though,” the voice came from his left and he slowly turned his head, every movement a near gargantuan effort.</p><p>“Can you… Dim the lights a bit?” his voice sounded all wrong. Or so it seemed when hearing it strained and shaky as he addressed the yet unseen person. There was no direct reply to the plea but the harsh glow behind his eyelids has seized, allowing him to open his eyes and look at the source of the voice. Male, average height, dressed in what looked like tracksuit pants and an old band shirt. The stranger was holding a small washing basin that looked almost as old as he was, towel thrown around his neck.</p><p>“Uh, where...”</p><p>As he was stringing the letters together, the stranger came closer, putting the basin onto the nightstand and dipping a washcloth into something that smelled vaguely… sterile. The moment the man’s hands reached towards him, he balked, skewing his face at too much stimuli that brought on the headache. The stranger must have noticed since he backed away a bit and raised his hands, one of them still holding the smelly washcloth with soapy water dripping down the toned forearm.</p><p>“It’s cool, kid. You’re bruised and scraped so I wanted to clean all that up before you started wiggling. Which you’re doing right now so... Yeah, this is gonna be fun.”</p><p>He flinched at the words, one hand coming up to touch the cheek that should have been soft and even but instead his pads stumbled over scrapes. When he removed the hand to take a better look, the fingers were covered in small red smears and crusted clots.</p><p>“Blood?? Where- Where am I?”</p><p>“Knew those differently dilated pupils were not a good sign,” the stranger sighed and put the washcloth down, damp fingers carefully grabbing him by the chin and urging to look in his direction. “Hi. My name is Tim and you’ll be staying at my house for the time being.”</p><p>Tongue flicking nervously over his own, chapped lips, came back with a faint taste of iron, gaze automatically darting towards the door. This whole thing looked awfully lot like one of those B movies with a good looking guy that was <em>also</em> a maniac and a murderer.</p><p>“Okay, Tim. Timothy,” he said weakly, heart picking up the pace at the thought of all the grizzly possibilities and eyes sweeping the room, already looking for a way out. This felt all wrong but no matter how much he tried to understand why, nothing came to mind. Nothing apart from a sense of estrangement. “C- Can I leave?”</p><p>“You sure can try.”</p><p>Trying caused multicolored blotches to erupt against the canvas of his closed eyelids, inducing vertigo and forcing him back onto the pillows, nauseated and breathing heavily, hand covering his own face.</p><p>“Uhhhhhh… Not going anywhere it seems. You’re free to harvest my kidneys, I surrender.”</p><p>Timothy guy sputtered in surprise and then snorted, pulling up a chair closer to the bed and once again taking a soft rag in his hand, corners of the eyes crinkling in amusement.</p><p>“Well, glad the sense of humor is alive and kicking. The way you landed on the ground? I’m surprised you have a head left. Or face.”</p><p>All that talking must have been to distract him from when the host’s fingers firmly but carefully locked around the wrist and a damp cloth ran over the scrapes, washing away the grime and dirt, all the while stinging like the dickens. He twitched at the unpleasant sensation but Timothy’s demeanor was beginning to, weirdly enough, work wonders for his anxiety and he sunk back into the bed, settling down and letting the other man take care of him.</p><p>A feeling of deserving such pampering curled up close to his heart, lifting corners of the lips in an almost satisfied grin. Right up until the cloth touched his cheek.</p><p>“Ow. Careful!” And then after some consideration. “Please.”</p><p>“Honey, you are awfully prissy for someone who was at the death door a couple of hours ago.”</p><p>“A couple - Um… How long was I out, exactly?”</p><p>Timothy paused his ministrations and used the moment to rinse the cloth, liquid coming off it looking pinkish in hue. The other man hummed and then threw a glance on the old grandfather’s clock, ticking rhythmically on the other side of the room.</p><p>“About five hours. Maybe six. I,” the washcloth has been squeezed out and ran over his forehead. “Am honestly surprised by you talking and being active like that. You heal like a damn rat, kiddo.”</p><p>
  <em>Kiddo.</em>
</p><p>That word… It shot right through him as an arrow, unpleasant and stinging and leaving a sour taste in his mouth.</p><p>“Great. Uh… I think I can just… Take it from here. Do you have a washroom nearby?” while talking, he once again tried getting off the bed, resulting in some grunts, groans, pain in his right side and some pathetic flailing. Eventually he had to throw in the towel and wordlessly outstretch his hand, asking Timothy to pass the washcloth and subsequently slapping it on his face in defeat.</p><p>“So...” the host piped up awkwardly in the background, no doubt amused by the show. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“Right, I’m -,” seconds ticked away but the name wasn’t coming back, throwing his brain into a state of panic with his chest beginning to rise and fall erratically. “I had a hummus sandwich for lunch. I don’t own a car. My name is… Is...”</p><p>Nothing came to mind. Absolutely nothing of substance, save the vague feeling that it might have started with an ‘R’.</p><p>“Right. Ok, calm down… is there any name you think could be yours?”</p><p>“I don’t know!” the washcloth was thrown aside, his gaze roaming around the room and finally stopping on the colourful socks and fancy heeled boots. Timothy didn’t look the man to wear that kind of attire, a worn out Black Sabbath shirt being a loud testament to that. “I feel like there might be an ‘R there? Do I look like someone with an ‘R’?’”</p><p>“Could be Randall. You have that kind of...” Tim did a vague hand gesture, a sharp grin cracking on his face. “Dumb air about you.”</p><p>Timothy must have noticed him glaring at the socks and made a non-committal sound, gesturing back into the depth of the house.</p><p>“Had to take your clothes off cuz you’ve torn them pretty bad and some were caked in dirt. You’re welcome, by the way. I even read the labels and everything.”</p><p>A quick peek under the blanket dissipated the worst fear of being buttnaked and he exhaled in relief, pulling the sheet closer to his chin and giving Timothy a sour glare. For better or worse, with every passing minute he was feeling a bit more stable, regaining if not outright memories, then at least the personality.</p><p>“I don’t care about the damn labels!” For now, anyhow. But if anything in there was cashmere... “Were there any documents?”</p><p>“Documents? What documents?” Tim was very much a ‘Randal’ himself right now, looking like an absolute dunce.</p><p>“Do-cu-men-ts,” he spelled out patiently as if he was talking to a three year old. “Wallet. ID. Phone! Did you check the pockets <em>at all</em>?”</p><p>“There was a satchel but I didn’t nose around...” Timothy went on the defensive and stood up, leaving the room and almost immediately coming back with a soft leather bag that was unceremoniously dropped onto the bed. “Here’s your manpurse, sweetheart. Don’t get your frilly panties in a bunch.”</p><p>“It’s a <em>bag</em>,” he replied, pulling his supposed belongings closer and spilling them on his lap. There was… a lot of stuff. It all looked familiar but beyond that, if asked what they were, he wouldn’t be able to point out their exact uses or names. After some digging around, an old wallet with an intricate but partly worn out pattern emerged and he flipped it open, pulling out a bunch of plastic cards. “Oh! Ok. So… Platinum shopper card with no name. Coupons... And… a flying license?” he squinted at the letters forming a name. “Rhys.”</p><p>The name rolled right off his tongue in a familiar fashion, confirming the already obvious. ‘Randall’ his ass.</p><p>“Still think you are a total Randall,” Tim shrugged his shoulders, looking bored and still annoyed at being treated like an idiot. “Flying license, huh? Explains the masterful curve and graceful landing you performed back there.”</p><p>This whole sarcasm thing Tim was doing was highly unappreciated. With regaining his name came some extra sense of self worth and Rhys propped himself a bit higher, staring Timothy down. As his headache started to ease off, Rhys could finally take a good look at his ‘savior’. Tim seemed to be a man of an athletic build: broad shoulders and chest, tapering off into a narrow waist and hips. Olive skin riddled with freckles and dark hair that seemed to have an auburn sheen to it, apart from one grey streak, fitting perfectly into a coiff. Rhys couldn’t take his eyes off it, feeling like he has seen that before. The streak and the eyes. A mismatched pair, one green and one blue. Both attentive and boring into him, the blue one staring right through and into Rhys.</p><p>Engulfing.</p><p>Suffocating.</p><p>He had to gasp for air, feeling skin breaking in goosebumps as discomfort began worming inside Rhys’ belly. He had never seen that man before and yet -</p><p>He felt -</p><p>“What is your problem, asshole?” The best defense was a good offence, as they say, and Rhys clapped back at Timothy with double vigor, trying to steady his rapidly beating heart. “Hospitality’s really lacking but then again, wouldn’t expect much from a man who undressed me first and then asked for my name second. I usually don’t need to be knocked out cold for that to happen.”</p><p>“Listen here, <em>kitten</em>,” Timothy leaned back in his chair and obnoxiously kicked his feet onto the bed, messing up the sheets. “First of all, people like <em>you</em> don’t interest me. And secondly, get your head out of your ass, not everything is about your royal fricken’ highness.”</p><p>“Sarcasm is not your strong suit, is it, cupcake?” Rhys shot a derogatory nickname right back, crossing arms on his chest and suddenly feeling too exposed and vulnerable sitting so close to that creep in nothing but his underwear. “Then please enlighten me because I’m sure as hell it ain’t about you either!”</p><p>“It’s about a guy who popped up right in front of my damn bike in the middle of nowhere,” Tim pursed his lips together, nostrils flaring. “Thought it was a sensible thing to bring him back here. But turns out,” he leaned in just a bit and Rhys felt the need to move away immediately, trying to keep the same distance as before. “Dude’s got a mouth on him, an ungrateful one at that and starts running it as soon as he’s able to. Should have left him on the ground, would definitely be more quiet around here.”</p><p>“Great, so good samaritan of you, wow,” Rhys bared his teeth in a snarl, all the while shimmying away from Timothy trying not to be too obvious. Soon enough he had found himself on the other side of the bed. “Ever thought of, I dunno, phoning E.R.??” Whatever gratitude he might have accumulated towards this man was quickly evaporating with every passing minute. Rhys did <em>not</em> like him. “Oh I get it, troubles with the law? Your precious bike’s off license? You have ‘delinquent’ written all over your dumb face.” In all fairness, Timothy called <em>him</em> dumb first. And a ‘Randall’. Hell, that guy basically started all of this!</p><p>“You’re the one who told me not to call anyone! And then broke my fricken’ phone!” Tim pushed the chair away again and stood up, beginning to pace around like a caged animal. “Serves me right for trying to do a nice thing once in a blue moon!” he stopped in his tracks and ran one hand over his face in exasperation. “Right, okay. Your pain level on the scale from 1 to 10, please.”</p><p>Rhys frowned when it became apparent that in his concussed state he refused any professional medical help and basically threw himself into the arms of a stranger. “2 if I don’t move too much,” contradicting what he just said, Rhys reached out for the washcloth once more. His face and skin was still dirty and every move he made echoed painfully in his muscles but Rhys didn’t want this asshat’s hands anywhere on or near him. “Anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole even when you’re trying to be nice?”</p><p>“Oh no. Never,”The sarcasm was heavy in the air as Timothy glared daggers back at Rhys. “Anyone ever told <em>you</em> that you are a prissy ungrateful turd?”</p><p>“Oh you are so charming, I’m just feeling the love over here.” Rhys muttered and wiggled around on the bed trying to find a comfortable position. Soon enough he was in pain and nauseous, undermining his own venom with a pathetic little whine.</p><p>“Here, take these,”The pitiful noise seemed to have been the cue for Timothy to step closer again and point at the side table where a glass of water and a strip of pills sat expectantly. “Will help with the pain. As to that one rattled brain cell in your head, sources say you shouldn’t sleep so...”He scratched his nose awkwardly and looked around. “Books? I have plenty.”</p><p>“Sources?”Rhys scoffed as he obediently took the painkiller, wrapping arms around himself and giving Tim a guarded stare. “A Wi-Fi password will do. And - And my phone. Should be somewhere in that bag too. Maybe I can find something to jog my memory.”</p><p>And get him out of here.</p><p>“Books, Rhys. I used books,” Tim looked mildly offended at the dismissive tone as he, once again, reached out for the bag and rummaged through pockets. “But my books are kinda old so I <em>also</em> checked some medical sites. And they say,” a sound of a zipper being pulled open and some more rummaging. “Sleeping when concussed is bad for you so…. Ah.”A phone suddenly appeared in Rhys’ field of vision. “Found it.”</p><p>“Huh. An asshole but takes his research seriously...” Rhys was largely on the fence as to how he felt about his potential killer or/and saviour. Muttering, he greedily reached for the phone and snatched it, only to hear a cracking noise and feel small harmless shards of glass sticking to his fingers as he turned the device over in his hands. The screen was badly cracked, two thirds of it either pixelated or completely black. “Oh… Oh no...”</p><p>“Did you cut yourself? ”The circumstantial mother hen by the name of Timothy descended on him the next moment, clucking in concern as Rhys just sat there, face expression mimicking that of a Greek tragedy mask.</p><p>“I remember it being brand new,” Rhys felt morose as he poked the screen a couple of times to no avail. “God this sucks so much.” The adrenaline from the verbal sparring started to wear off and the painkillers began working their magic, making him feel if not exhausted, then definitely very tired. He saw Tim disappear in the room across the hallway and come back with what looked like a tablet that he awkwardly held in his hand.</p><p>“Uh… You can use my tablet if you wanna.” Timothy looked almost guilty, as if he was regretting being so rude just minutes ago. Good, because he really was. Still, Rhys tried to extend a peace offering and smiled curtly.</p><p>“That’d actually be great. Thanks.”</p><p>“It ain’t three billion pixel retina bullshit but search engine works fine and Candy Crush ain’t lagging.” Tim carefully handed the tablet to Rhys and grinned almost shyly. “Guess I have to officially extend my invitation for you to spend the night.”</p><p>“You’re not concerned about letting a stranger into your home? What if <em>I</em> want to harvest your kidneys?” Rhys raised an eyebrow, swiping the screen of the tablet and staring at the wallpaper of a pile of kittens in a basket. Really? Kittens? The way this guy behaved Rhys expected to see a photo of a naked oiled up chick on a motorcycle.</p><p>“The way you are right now? Me and my organs will take our chances,” Timothy smiled and then headed out of the room, pausing at the doorstep. “Gonna fix myself something to eat. You want anything?”</p><p>“Probably a bad idea,” Rhys replied and shook his head, regretting it immediately. “Something warm will do.”</p><p>He turned his attention back to the tablet and hardly noticed Tim leaving, concentrating on whatever shreds of memories, no, impulses he could string together. Rhys let his fingers guide him, typing in addresses and passwords and relying on the muscle memory alone. Soon enough Rhys found himself on the darknet, pouring over the history of purchases and chat logs he had left behind. Some of the findings led him back to the contents of his bag that were now arranged all over the blanket and when Rhys heard Tim come back, he lifted his head up, dragging his gaze over the other man as he accepted the drink.</p><p>“So, Tim. What is it that you do in life?”</p><p>“Is that, like, a deep philosophical question?”</p><p>“No,” Rhys rolled his eyes a bit and took a swig of what turned out to be a nice minty tea. “I’m asking, where you work.”</p><p>“Oh. Ah, hah,” Timothy suddenly looked flustered and rubbed his neck. “I work in archives. You could say I’m a glorified librarian of sorts. And if something breaks down I’m also our only tech guy.”</p><p>Wow, a <em>librarian</em>. Rhys figured as much when, after snooping around on the tablet he managed to access the cloud storage with a massive amount of books and old documents scanned and saved onto it. Rhys enjoyed books as a decoration but all in all they were the relics of the past and, in his not so humble opinion, completely useless in this day and age.</p><p>“Well, that explains why you ran to the books first when you were diagnosing me and my concussion. Interesting combination I have to say,” he blew onto the hot tea before taking yet another sip, curling his fingers tighter around the mug. “Librarian <em>and</em> tech savvy?”</p><p>“Yeah, kinda? Tech stuff comes natural to me but I much better prefer books,” Timothy shrugged his shoulders and Rhys noticed how his gaze drifted to all the items laid out on the bed,brows knit in confusion. “What are all these?”</p><p>Good question, Rhys thought to himself. Deep down he knew what they were and if he closed his eyes he could almost recall how to use them but the names and purposes eluded him as soon as he tried grasping onto the images and concepts. In the end he let his long fingers slide over several objects, finally stopping over a silver box with an unfamiliar crest and popped the lid open. Inside was a stack of cards with a black reverse and intricate pattern of old gold that shimmered softly in the dim light of the room.</p><p>“So these, for example, seem to be my business cards,” He picked one out and handed it to Tim who took it, staring at the print with question marks almost visibly swimming over his head. “Because, turns out, I am a professional witch by trade.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi guys and welcome to this circus. This work is a labor of love and blood, sweat and tears (not necessarily in that order and quantity) and was borne from a private RP. We really liked the world and the lore we created and we wanted to share it with you as well. The journey is only beginning and we aim to release a chapter every two month or so. Keep our twitters <a href="https://twitter.com/vismisafterdark">vismisafterdark</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/eternal_garbage">eternal_garbage</a> on your radars for updates and sneak peeks.</p><p>We hope you'll enjoy this fic as much as we enjoy working on it and as such, we would be thrilled to hear what you thought about it. Comments and kudos are, after all, creator's bread and butter.</p><p>Thanks for reading,</p><p>The Tegg</p></blockquote></div></div>
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